


What Everyone Does for Valentine's Day

by astrid_fischer



Series: 'le révolutionnaire', an a.b.c. press publication [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Multi, Newspaper!AU, valentine's day fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrid_fischer/pseuds/astrid_fischer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there are proclamations of love, daffodils, stolen roses, pink-and-red streamers, spilled tea, a commandeered newspaper, a Valentine's'd press office, a red dress in the rain, more fire escapes, blanket hoarding, Audrey Hepburn, lost opera tickets, and Funfetti cupcakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 8:05 a.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which bossuet should never be let in on secrets, jehan spills tea, there are daffodils, courfeyrac asks a question, and jehan gives him an answer.
> 
> please pardon my french (but actually).

When Jehan wakes up on Valentine’s morning, he pulls open his bedroom door onto the kitchen to find Bossuet sitting on the counter in Joly’s plaid pajama bottoms, clutching a mug of coffee in both hands and staring at Jehan’s door with a look on his face that is very nearly manic.

Jehan stops in the doorway, blinking. “What are you doing?” he asks curiously, scrubbing at his eyes with one hand and stifling a yawn.

“Nothing. What am I doing? I’m not doing anything.” Bossuet takes a too-large gulp of his coffee and takes a moment to choke on the hot liquid before asking aggressively, “What are _you_ doing?”

Jehan answers, startled, “Nothing.”

It’s eight in the morning, an hour he is not all that familiar with, because they’re all supposed to go to the press to help Grantaire with something. Jehan already feels desperately disoriented, and Bossuet’s apparent insanity isn’t helping.

Jehan side-eyes Bossuet as he twists his hair into a simple braid over one shoulder and heads for the stove to grab the tea-kettle. He shifts from one foot to the other while filling it at the tap because they can’t afford good heating and the linoleum floor is cold even through his stripey socks.

He can _feel_ Bossuet’s eyes on his back while he waits for the water to boil, and Jehan sort of wishes Joly would get up so Bossuet (who has clearly had too much caffeine) will have something else to distract him. He’s considering going back to his bedroom to hide while his tea is steeping, just so he can escape.

“Nice morning,” Bossuet says. There’s a shrillness to his voice that is approaching hysterical.

Jehan makes a humming noise of agreement, pulling one of the metal tins of tea towards him. He measures out teaspoons into the heart-shaped strainer.

“Look at the table!” Bossuet shrieks, nearly falling off the counter in agitation. Jehan yelps at the sudden sound, dropping the spoon _and_ the strainer and making loose-leaf tea leaves scatter all over the kitchen floor.

“What?” he asks in bewilderment.

“ _The table_ ,” Bossuet repeats, clutching his mug so hard he’s liable to break it at any moment.

Jehan glances over at the table. There’s nothing out of the ordinary that he can see from here: the vase of peonies he’s put there himself, a folded newspaper, a couple of Joly’s medical textbooks, and a half-empty cup of coffee from yesterday.

But the tortured expression on Bossuet’s face makes him abandon the spilled tea for the time being. Obligingly, he moves over to the table to look more closely.

Still, though, he’s really not getting it, and he’s tired and he’d just like to have his tea without Bossuet haranguing him, and that’s when his eyes fall on the newspaper. It’s one of theirs, today’s issue.

_Le Révolutionnaire—une publication de la Presse A.B.C.—jeudi, le quatorze février._

When Bossuet makes a sound of impatience that is not far off from a cat being strangled, Jehan picks it up and, for lack of any other ideas, looks at the front page headline.

And then he freezes.

And reads the headline again.

“Un homme parisien avec des cheveux fabuleux est éperdument amoureuse d’un poète dans un pull absurde”

(A Parisian man with fabulous hair is hopelessly in love with a poet in an absurd swaeter)

And beneath it, printed smaller and in parentheses:

_avec_ _beaucoup de remerciements à notre rédacteur en chef incroyablement beau, qui ne sait pas encore ce que nous avons réquisitionné son journal à cet effet_

(with many thanks to our incredibly handsome editor, who does not yet know that we have commandeered his newspaper for this purpose)

And _oh_ , Jehan thinks dazedly, but Enjolras is going to commit so much murder when he finds out about this.

There’s a full article underneath the headline, and Jehan isn’t even absorbing most of it as his eyes skim over the black-and-white lines, but he’s had enough practice close reading to pick out the important things, and “adorable” and “darling” and “ravishment” seem to be recurring motifs.

The last sentence is a question, and Jehan finds that his mouth is dry as he reads it:

_“But does this darling forest creature reciprocate his studly paramour’s feelings? Will he consent to a dreadfully cliché Valentine’s Day first date? Inquiring minds want to know (and they’ll be waiting outside his apartment for his answer) (in a heroic romantic way not in a creepy stalker way) (hopefully).”_

Jehan hasn’t even fully finished reading, but he’s already dropped the newspaper back to the table and is moving across to the door, fumbling with the six locks that Joly always insists on doing up, and (after briefly considering climbing out the window instead, because really it might be faster) at last he manages to fling the door open.

Courfeyrac sprawls backwards into the apartment, because he had been sitting with his back up against the door.

“Took you long enough,” he says from the floor, and his grin is dazzling even upside-down, and Bossuet calls in a much-maligned way, “ _He wouldn’t look at the table_.”

Courfeyrac holds up a bouquet of daffodils (because somehow he’s remembered that daffodils are Jehan’s favorite, even though he can’t have mentioned it more than once, and in passing) wrapped with a pink ribbon and Jehan takes them, and asks, “Are you going to get up?”

“Not until I hear your answer,” Courfeyrac answers solemnly. “Because if you say no, then I’m probably going to need to lie here for a while anyway, and I don’t like to exert unnecessary energy.”

Jehan couldn’t stop smiling if he wanted to. “I thought my opening the door _was_ the answer.”

“Theoretically, maybe, but you were going to have to leave the apartment sometime,” Courfeyrac points out, and then his grin turns a little more wicked as his gaze drops from Jehan’s face. “Although granted, probably not without pants on.”

Then he looks back up, and there’s something so hopeful in his expression that Jehan’s heart skips a beat. “Does that mean it’s a yes?” Courfeyrac asks, levering himself up to lean back on his elbows.

And Jehan answers by sitting down on the linoleum floor next to him and grabbing him by his stupid bow-tie (and no, he’s not even wearing a collared shirt) and kissing him firmly on the mouth.

“More of a ‘what took you so long,’” Jehan replies when they break apart, beaming down at the man in his lap. Because he’s wanted to kiss Courfeyrac for weeks, if not months. Because yes, the poet in the absurd sweater is just as in love with the boy with fabulous hair. “But yes, it’s also a yes.”

“Thank the baby Jesus, because Enjolras is going to kill me and I would hate to die for nothing,” Courfeyrac says, and kisses him again until they’re both breathless, and Jehan is flushed and laughing and dizzy he’s so happy. Then Courfeyrac scrambles to his feet, dragging Jehan along with him.

“Quick! Obtain some pants,” Courfeyrac instructs him, with that wonderful eye-crinkling grin, “We can’t keep Commandant R waiting, and it’s going to take us _at least_ fifteen extra minutes to get there because I anticipate needing to stop and kiss you a lot.”


	2. 10:32 a.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which not even the newspaper office is sacred, the editor refuses to come in, there is an absurd overabundance of party materials, lying may not be a cardinal sin but it is definitely, probably, really high up there, and (as usual) even the best of plans go awry.

“So you’re really not going to come in at all today?” Eponine asks the phone wedged between her ear and shoulder as she licks frosting off a butter knife.

“He’s going to embarrass me,” is Enjolras’ baleful response, and she can hear faint Classical music in the background. She resists the urge to make fun of him for it (because _of course_ Enjolras listens to Tchaikovsky just for fun).

“Don’t be so suspicious,” Eponine chides him, waving impatiently for Feuilly and Bahorel to stop blowing up red and pink balloons because the helium sound is definitely going to carry down the phone line. “You always think everything is some grand conspiracy against you.”

“You locked me into my own press last week, Eponine.”

“And your insistence on holding onto that grudge is extremely unattractive.”

“Come on,” Jehan calls from across the room. “It’s a holiday!”

His cheeks are flushed and if he thinks the others haven’t noticed how he’s been brushing his fingers over Courfeyrac’s or blushing whenever the other man so much as looks at him, then Eponine won’t be the one to spoil it for them.

“It’s not even a real holiday,” is Enjolras’ exasperated reply. “Tell him that.”

“I will not,” Eponine says. “He’ll cry.”

“I’m not coming in,” the press’ editor says again, with an air of finality this time, and she can hear pen skritching on paper. “I will see you all _tomorrow_ , when it is no longer Hallmark’s miserable excuse for rampant capitalism.”

“You’re going to leave _us_ in charge of the press?” Eponine asks, raising one eyebrow even though she knows he can’t see her.

“Yes,” he says at last, although the pain it costs him to say it is very evident. “You are all relatively competent employees when you try to be.”

Eponine nearly chokes laughing. “Have you _seen_ today’s paper?” she asks without thinking.

There’s a very long, very bad pause before Enjolras asks in his most dangerous voice, “What did you do?”

“Nothing, nothing, forget I said anything. Does this mean you’re coming in?”

“Tell Courfeyrac that whatever he has done, I will make all of his t-shirts into banners for the student protests.”

“Enjolras,” Eponine wheedles, tapping the end of her pen against her desk. “Are you coming _in_?”

But it seems that even an unnamed threat to his beloved paper isn’t enough to make Enjolras risk the horrors of Valentine’s Day. “No. I’ll see you tomorrow, Eponine.”

“You’ll break his heart,” Eponine says quickly, before he can hang up, and she can hear Enjolras’ muffled groan in response.

“I’ll see him later tonight,” he tells her, exasperated, but she can hear the hint of hesitation in his voice.

Grantaire grins at her from across the office, looking about the furthest thing away from heartbroken anyone could imagine.

Eponine presses her ill-gotten advantage. “That’s not the same. He brought a present for you and everything. I know stuff like this isn’t important to you, but it is to him.”

She pauses for a moment, and when there’s still no response she goes for the heavy artillery. “He’s been waiting _months_ for you, and you’re not even going to kiss him on Valentine’s Day?” she asks balefully, and the editor’s audible sigh is sign enough that she’s won.

She gives the others a thumbs up, and Jehan claps happily before Courfeyrac prods him to support his end of the banner. And then helpfully slides an arm around the smaller man’s waist, you know, just in case he falls.

“Can you promise me he’s not going to do anything?” Enjolras asks her.

Eponine, meanwhile, has covered the mouthpiece of the phone to hiss, “Grantaire! Stop my brother from eating the cupcakes, I spent an hour on those.”

Grantaire obliges by hefting the boy up onto his shoulders (ignoring his heartfelt complaints and continued attempts to swipe at the pink-frosted pastries). He hands Gavroche some rose petals so he can help scatter them over the desks and floor.

“I swear on my life,” Eponine tells Enjolras.

“Fine,” he says, and exhales. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

Eponine punches the air in triumph and hangs up before he can offer any further protestations.

This had all been Grantaire’s idea, but he’d enlisted all of them to help because he may be indifferent to most things but it turns out when he decides to make a gesture, he pulls out all the stops.

None of them had minded too much, even if it _had_ involved getting up at seven, purchasing an absurd amount of party materials from the fifty-centime store down the street, and wrangling their reluctant editor into the office.

“Because vandalizing the newspaper wasn’t bad enough,” Combeferre had remarked earlier that morning, when they’d all spilled into the press carrying rolls of streamers and baked goods and poster paint. “Now you want to deface the office?”

But Grantaire had pointed out to him that he had approved that issue last night, and that he wasn’t telling them to stop now, and Combeferre had only sighed and handed scissors to Eponine, who was trying to open plastic wrap with her teeth.

“You owe me twenty euro,” she tells Courfeyrac now, swinging her feet down from the desk in front of her and going to grab a handful of petals from the cardboard box Grantaire’s holding under one arm. “Told you I’d get him.” Then she raises her voice to tell the whole office, “We have an hour.”

“I bow down, my queen,” Courfeyrac says magnanimously, and _does_ actually sweep a bow from his precarious position on top of one of the cabinets. A balloon explodes from the corner, and Combeferre gives Bahorel, who is grinning, a cross look.

“Sorry, chief,” Bahorel says in a voice gone high and squeaky from helium, and he and Feuilly collapse into giggles.

“I’ an hou’ enough time?” Joly asks anxiously around the glue-stick cap in his mouth.

“It should be, all that’s left is the collage and the rest of the streamers,” Combeferre answers, and Eponine grins at him. “That sounds an awful lot like you’re condoning this,” she says.

He pushes his glasses up on his nose and replies, “Condoning is a strong word. Let’s settle for tolerating.”

Five minutes later Courfeyrac’s cell phone starts playing Buttons by the Pussycat Dolls (his personalized ringtone for Enjolras) and he freezes, then digs it out of his pocket with the look of a man approaching the gallows. Everyone in the office goes very quiet.

“Hello?” he answers, and then says, wincing, “Enjolras, darling, you know whenever you use that terrifying tone of voice my brain shuts off in fear and I just hear white noise.”

“I _said_ ,” Enjolras says, shoving the office door open, “That if you don’t type up the most groveling public apology anyone has ever seen to publish with the next issue, I swear to _God_  I will donate all of your cardigans to charity.”

Bossuet gives a panicked yelp at the sight of the editor. “You said we had an hour!”

Eponine, who is cursing (not for the first time) the fact that Enjolras lives literally around the corner and across the street from the press office, narrows her eyes at Enjolras. “Where is the trust?”

“Possibly wherever you’ve left your moral decency,” he answers tartly. “Perhaps you should go and look for it?”

She sticks her tongue out at him.

“I can’t believe you lied to us!” Courfeyrac says, and points an accusing finger down at Enjolras. “Lying is a cardinal sin, you know.”

“No, it isn’t,” Combeferre says.

“I—it isn’t?” Courfeyrac asks, affronted. “Well, it’s still _very bad_.”

But Enjolras has been suddenly derailed from his quest to maim Courfeyrac because he’s actually taken a moment to look around. He’s now standing with his mouth slightly open, taking in the state of his office. Everyone goes very still on instinct, as if maybe Enjolras won’t notice them if they don’t move.

Jehan and Courfeyrac are in the process of hanging the banner, upon which the purple-painted letters of ‘JE T’ADORE’ are still wet. Joly and Bossuet are sitting on the floor cutting up back-issues of _Le_ _ _Révolutionnaire_ _ and pasting letters and pictures together onto a posterboard. The collage isn’t finished, but even from the doorway it’s obvious that it’s shaping up to read ‘E + R.’

There are pink-and-red crepe paper streamers criss-crossing the ceiling, and rose petals all over the desks and floor. Bahorel and Feuilly have paused guiltily in the middle of blowing up the last balloon, and air is hissing out of it in a high-pitched whine.

Eponine’s Funfetti cupcakes are sitting on Enjolras’ desk, along with a folded checked tablecloth and a bottle of champagne and various other picnicky things.

It looks like Hallmark has exploded all over the normally-drab office.

There’s a long, deeply uncomfortable moment of silence.

Then, “Everyone out,” Enjolras says in his scary-calm voice. “Now. _Not_ you,” he grinds out as Grantaire inches towards the door.

They waste no time obeying, abandoning whatever they were working on and hurrying out without meeting the editor’s fierce blue-eyed gaze.

They clear the room in under a minute (Eponine squeezes Grantaire’s arm bracingly on her way past).

And Enjolras slams the door behind them, and it’s just Grantaire and Enjolras in the office, and Grantaire is looking at the unfathomable expression on the other man’s face and wondering why exactly he had thought this would be such a good idea.

“Okay, so, I realize that you’re upset,” Grantaire starts.

He doesn’t finish, though, because Enjolras strides across the room to him and cuts off whatever he was going to say by kissing him.

It’s a sweet, lingering kiss, with Enjolras’ hands coming up to cup the other man’s face and Grantaire’s arms wrapping around Enjolras’ waist (because touching Enjolras has somehow already turned into an instinct).

Grantaire blinks at him for a moment when they break apart, because his brain is still trying to rewire to figure out how the situation has changed so suddenly. He was fully prepared for Enjolras to scream at him. Instead Enjolras has his hands resting on Grantaire’s hips, his thumbs pressing gently into the indents of the other man’s hipbones.

“You did all this for me?” Enjolras asks softly. The intimacy contained in the words is enough to send a shiver down Grantaire’s spine.

“Well, it was originally for my _other_ male suitor, but it was easy enough to change the name on the banner,” Grantaire manages, but his voice is an octave too low to be properly flippant. “Does this mean you like it?”

Enjolras answers by kissing him again, more fiercely this time, and then knotting the fingers of one hand in Grantaire’s unruly curls and tugging his head back so Enjolras can get at the graceful curve of his throat with his lips and teeth.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Grantaire gasps, and lets himself be pushed back against the desk behind them (Enjolras’ desk, how appropriate). He hooks a finger through one of the beltloops of Enjolras’ criminally tight jeans and tugs him forward.

“I thought you were mad?” he can’t help but ask.

Enjolras shakes his head slowly and leans in to murmur in Grantaire’s ear, “I just wanted them to leave.”

“Oh,” says Grantaire, and then, “ _Oh_ ,” because _oh_. “And Courfeyrac?” he asks, and his brain appears to have short-circuited the way it does when Enjolras is this close to him because _why is he still talking_ , _for fuck’s sake._

“Will pay,” Enjolras says with a rather terrifying smile, and then asks in a deliciously rough voice, sliding his palms up Grantaire’s sides, “Do you really want to talk about Courfeyrac right now?”

“What’s a Courfeyrac?” Grantaire asks dazedly.

“Good answer,” Enjolras murmurs.

Grantaire already looks halfway to debauched, face flushed and hair mussed, but he tries to sound innocent as he rests his hands on the waistband of Enjolras’ jeans and asks, “So. What did you have in mind now that you’ve got me alone?”

And, well, the smirk Enjolras returns isn’t very innocent at all.


	3. 5:54 p.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which a reservation is cancelled, blankets are hoarded, and who needs stuffy restaurant dress codes, anyway?

“I have a fever,” Joly moans from where he’s huddled himself on one of the threadbare armchairs in the common room. He’s dressed already, wearing his suit pants and dinner jacket, both of which he’s in the process of wrinkling horribly.

Bossuet puts the back of his hand to his boyfriend’s forehead. “You were alright ten minutes ago,” he says worriedly.

And the thing is, the thing that Joly loves about him (one of a hundred, of a thousand things—he’s got an ongoing list in his head, because Joly likes lists) is that he’s _genuinely_ worried, because no matter how many times Joly thinks he’s come down with something Lesgles never laughs at him.

“Well, now I have a fever,” Joly says morosely, and shivers. “Or possibly the beginnings of plague.”

“Okay,” Bossuet says simply, and pushes back to his feet.

Joly stays curled up in the armchair because it’s the closest piece of furniture to the radiator and watches while Bossuet uses Joly’s phone (he’s always losing his own) to call the restaurant and cancel their reservations.

“I’m sorry,” Joly tells him. He feels guilty.

“I’m not,” Bossuet says breezily. “Their dress code was _entirely_ unreasonable anyway.” He touches the top of Joly’s head affectionately as he passes by the back of the armchair and disappears into their bedroom.

“What are you doing?” Joly calls worriedly when he hears a loud thumping noise coming from the other room.

“Nothing,” is the unconvincing reply. A minute goes by, and then another, and then Bossuet emerges from the other room dragging the mattress from their double bed.

“What are you _doing_?” Joly asks again, with a  startled laugh, and then makes a surprised sound because the other man is pulling back his chair (with him still in it) so that he can flop the mattress into the space by the heater instead.

And then Joly realizes what he’s doing, and on Bossuet’s next trip past he grabs his arm so that he can press a kiss to the inside of his boyfriend’s wrist.

“Clothing off,” Bossuet orders as he circles around the chair and pulls Joly to his feet. He helps divest Joly of his navy blue suit jacket, collared shirt, trousers, boxers and all, and then hands over his plaid pajamas.

Joly pulls the warm flannel on and curls up on the mattress, and Bossuet carries every blanket and cushion in the house (and a heavy down comforter borrowed from Jehan’s room, because judging by the Taylor Swift song which took place in their kitchen this morning he won’t be home tonight) into the living room to pile onto Joly.

Then Bossuet strips off his own suit with a carelessness that would make Courfeyrac cringe, fetches a cheap bottle of wine and two paper cups from the kitchen, and burrows under the covers with him.

(And that’s another thing Joly loves, that whenever Joly’s sick Bossuet doesn’t screech for hand sanitizer and wear a face mask around the apartment the way Joly would if their places were reversed. If anything, he sticks even closer.)

They watch the Discovery Channel special on cats and call for a pizza from the restaurant two streets over and lie with limbs flopped over one another on the warm mattress.

When Bossuet manages to spill red wine on the corner of Jehan’s comforter even though it’s on top of him, Joly sighs and tells him for the thousandth time that really, it’s amazing how bad his luck is.

But Bossuet, instead of agreeing like he always does, shakes his head. He presses his cold feet against Joly’s legs, and Joly shivers but doesn’t pull away.

“No,” Bossuet says, and looks over at Joly with a smile so fond that it makes Joly’s heart melt. “I’m the luckiest person in the world.”


	4. 7:46 p.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which marius really shouldn’t be responsible for keeping track of tickets and cosette likes the rain.

“It’s not funny!” Marius says mournfully, but that doesn’t make Cosette stop laughing.

She’s standing underneath the awning of L’Arpege in a red dress which matches her lipstick, Marius’ black velvet suit jacket draped over her shoulders and her blonde hair slipping in loose curls from its careful pins.

And it _is_ funny, really, watching Marius standing on the curb in the rain, trying and failing to hail a taxi cab with great waving motions of his arms.

The doorman is doing an admirable job of remaining straight-faced, but Cosette swears she saw his lips quirk a few minutes ago, after Marius made a particularly dramatic gesture and had nearly fallen into the street.

“I would really, _really_ be fine with staying in and watching Pride and Prejudice,” Cosette had told Marius a hundred times. “Buy me a five euro box of chocolates from Monoprix and I’m good.”

But Marius had looked as horrified as if she’d suggested making a habit of kicking puppies for fun, and he’d insisted on taking her out to dinner at the sort of restaurant which didn’t list prices on the menu, and had even bought them tickets to _La Boh_ _ _è_ me_ at the opera. Cosette loved him for the sentiment alone.

Only, Marius had forgotten his wallet at home, and that was fine at the restaurant because Cosette had her purse with her, but the opera tickets were tucked in Marius’ wallet and there was no way they’d make it to his apartment and back before curtain.

As an added bonus, it had started raining while they were inside L’Arpege and neither of them had thought to bring an umbrella.

Hence, Marius’ current battle with every yellow taxi in Paris.

The most recent cab Marius flails at turns out to be off-duty, and he sighs and retreats back under the awning to stand by Cosette, blinking rainwater out of his eyes and looking deeply distraught.

“I’m sorry,” he says for the thousandth time tonight, and she only grins at him and reaches over to push damp, gingery hair out of his eyes, and tells him for the thousandth time that it’s fine, really.

“I just wanted it to be perfect,” Marius says, and sighs, gesturing helplessly. “Because _you’re_ perfect, and you deserve someone who doesn’t forget opera tickets, and who can actually hail a cab.”

“Normally I _do_ base relationships around taxi-cab hailing,” Cosette agrees, and when Marius doesn’t laugh she sighs fondly and takes his arm. “I am not perfect, and you are ridiculous. In a very wonderful way.”

“I can’t believe I forgot the tickets.”

“There will be other operas,” she tells him, “And besides, you look good wet.”

He blushes and regards her thoughtfully, his blue eyes warm. “I definitely don’t deserve you, you know.”

“No mere mortal does,” she sighs. “It is my cross to bear.”

“You’re kidding, but you’re not wrong.” He presses a kiss to her temple. “I’m going to try again.”

He returns to his tireless post at the curb and Cosette takes a step further out, right up to the edge of the awning where rain spatters down onto the cement at her toes. It’s a warm night, despite the February rain, and she loves the smell of rain in the city. She loves rain in general.

She watches Marius for a moment more, feeling her lips quirk up at his unfailing determination. Then she shrugs out of his jacket, folds it carefully, and asks the doorman, “Do you mind holding this for just a moment?”

He eyes her, then nods in a gruff sort of way and accepts the jacket. Cosette thanks him earnestly, and then ducks out from under the awning into the downpour.

Fat rain droplets fall onto her head and the skirt of her dress and her outstretched arms, and she twirls around so that the dress fans out around her knees.

It’s soaking rain, the kind that beats down the dust and runs into the street and gutters in rivers, and Cosette knows her clothing will be drenched and her hair will be ruined, but she just stands with her head tipped back and her eyes closed and revels in the feel of rain on her skin.

“Cosette!” she hears, and then there are hurried footsteps on wet cement and she drops her gaze back to the street and Marius is standing there in front of her, and he smiles at her with his hair stuck up absurdly on one side and asks, “ _What_ are you doing?”

And she answers simply, “I didn’t want to waste the rain.”

When she twirls again, he catches her, hands firm on her waist, and without any warning sweeps her up into his arms. Laughter bubbles up in her throat, clear like a bell, and she clings to him as he whirls them around and around.

The rain makes the pavement shine like a precious thing, and Cosette’s hair clings to her neck in wet swirls, and the red tulle of her dress is vibrant in the fading light. Marius’ dress shoes are done for. Cosette tips her head back and flings her arms wide.


	5. 10:17 p.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which no, pretty sociopaths don’t quite understand boundaries, a boy steals a girl a rose, and fire escapes are important yet again.

The fourth time the buzzer sounds, long and unrelenting, very much as if someone’s leaning on it _like an asshole_ , Eponine throws her blanket off and stalks over to the door.

“I said _fuck off_ ,” she snaps into the intercom on the wall, and there’s no response but the sound stops and after a moment’s hesitation to be sure the buzzer isn’t going to ring again, Eponine retreats back to the couch.

She’s been sitting wrapped in blankets watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s, because in addition to all the horribly violent movies she enjoys, she really loves Audrey Hepburn.

And, well, it’s Valentine’s Day, and if she’s honest, Valentine’s Day sort of sucks.

It’s not like she sits around bemoaning her single status, usually. But she’s had to hear about Marius’ plans with Cosette all fucking day, because he keeps texting her, and finally she’d had to turn the ringer off and shut the phone in a drawer.

Bahorel had been pestering her to come join their movie night at Combeferre’s, but even though normally she’d be all over it, tonight she doesn’t feel up to much more than lying on her couch with peanut-butter M&Ms and watching old movies.

Eponine has just gotten settled again when there’s a rapping sound at her window.

She sits up and looks over the back of her couch to see Montparnasse, who has evidently given up on the buzzer. He’s now lounging on her fire escape wearing his leather jacket and his prettiest smirk.

Eponine crosses the room and shoves the window up, but puts a hand up when he shifts to try and slide into the apartment. “I _so_ don’t think so, pretty boy.”

His bowed lips turn down into a devastating pout.

From out of nowhere, he produces a single long-stemmed rose, which surprisingly doesn’t look like it was bought for a euro at the drugstore (which, of course, means it wasn’t bought at all).

“Juliet, love,” he says, looking up at her from underneath dark lashes. “Don’t make me beg.”

She ignores the proffered rose. “I know boundaries don’t mean much to the criminally insane, but this is getting ridiculous.”

“I’ll sing for you,” he tells her with a lazy smile. He smells of hair gel and cologne (or is it perfume?) and the faint undertone of whiskey.

“Is that meant to be an enticement or a threat?” she asks. “Having heard your singing voice, I really can’t tell.”

“So cruel.”

“Better than you.”

“Did you miss me?” he asks her.

“Were you gone?”

He lets his head fall back against the rail of the fire escape, exposing the pale skin of his throat and the faint five o’clock shadow on his jaw.

“Might as well stab me, Ep,” he tells her softly, and for the barest of seconds she almost feels bad. Almost. Because for that second, something flickers across his handsome face which, in the right light, might be mistaken for sincerity.

“I’ve tried,” she answers tartly. “You move too fast.”

“I’ll hold still next time, how’s that?”

“Is that a promise?”

He smiles at her again, in his flowered button-down and ripped-to-hell black jeans and studded boots, his hair spilling into his angular face like ink. A Doré etching of a fallen angel sprawling on her fire escape.

“I’ll promise you anything you like,” he tells her.

“Promise you’ll go.”

“Anything but that.” He snaps the stem off the rose a few inches from the petals and leans forward to tuck the blood-red flower behind her ear, and she lets him. His soft fingertips brush along her jaw.

“Let me come in,” he coaxes.

She sighs and asks if he’s aware of just how much she dislikes him. But she can’t stop the quirk of her lips as she says it (and she knows she’s done for).

And he smiles back, that cat’s smile, and tells her that he doesn’t mind too much.

“You can’t stay the night,” she informs him. “And I’m finishing my movie no matter how much you whine.”

He takes hold of her chin with graceful fingers and kisses the corner of her mouth, gentle the way he only ever is with her, and she rolls her eyes at him but takes a step back so that he can slip in through the window.

He stays the night anyway.


End file.
